From 'Runaway' by Heather Towne

Madame Medieval’s place was out in the country, a huge stone gothic house set on a rolling expanse of green grass in the middle of the drought-stricken Texas plains. The woman had a reputation for eccentricity, to go along with her well-known ruthlessness.

            I turned off the highway and onto the asphalt ribbon that led up to the house. Then I parked my car, stepped out and walked up to the medieval door of the three-storey castle-like structure. Moonlight illuminated the scene, what looked like candles sputtering from a few windows on the first floor of the house.

            Madame Medieval herself answered the crashing bang of the heavy brass door knocker. The woman was even more imposing in person than picture: imperiously tall and slim, with flowing white hair, a smooth planed face bisected by a long aristocratic nose, emblazoned with large violet eyes and a pincushion-red mouth. She was dressed entirely in gleaming black leather, a bodysuit that would have had Catwoman hissing in envy.

            ‘You’re late,’ she said with a sniff.

            ‘Sorry, I –’

            ‘Come in. Sit down in the parlour.’

            She was obviously used to giving orders. And having them obeyed.

            I followed her taut leather-clad buttocks down a candlelit marble hallway into the candlelit parlour and took a seat on a red velvet wide-backed chair. She draped herself out on a plush red velvet couch, her bodysuit squeaking slightly.

            ‘You’re a pretty little thing – for a bounty hunter,’ she commented, crossing her long shiny legs.

            I inadvertently reached up and fondled the loose ends of my straw-blonde hair, fluttering my long lashes over my green eyes. My research had told me that compliments were few and far between when dealing with Madame Medieval.

            ‘I get the job done, don’t you worry,’ I said, breaking free from her commanding eyes, the intoxicating scent of her perfume. ‘You’ve got one for me, I understand?’

            She regarded me a moment longer. Then licked her crimson-coated lips and acknowledged, ‘Yes. One of my slaves has escaped. I want you to track him down.’

            I arched an eyebrow, nothing more.

            Madame Medieval rose and swept past me, out of the parlour and down the hallway. The four-inch spike heels on her black leather boots echoed harshly on the hard floor, leading me on.

            She pulled open a heavy oak door, and we descended a wrought-iron spiral staircase, down into her dungeon. More candles sputtered from brass fixtures in the stone walls, casting a flickering light on the various instruments of sexual torture that were scattered about, the devices of depraved sexual deviance and obedience bolted into the walls and the stone floor.

            There were three men down there in that subterranean horror chamber as well: one secured by metal cuffs to a giant black leather X; one secured to the wall by a steel chain attached to his studded collar; and one lashed facedown with thick leather straps to a black metal table. They were all starkly naked.

            ‘These are my slaves,’ Madame Medieval intoned with a sweep of her arm. She pointed at an old-fashioned pillory, the kind they used to lock the town drunk into for exhibition in the public square about three hundred years ago; empty. ‘Minus one, who has escaped.’

            I looked the men over. The man clamped to the X was a prominent big-city pastor, Christopher Montgomery, whose Brimstone Cathedral congregation numbered in the tens of thousands, his evangelical television audience in the millions. His naked body glowed pure white, smooth and soft, hard pink cock jutting out from his shaven loins. He had a wispy halo of brown hair and a pleasing middle-aged face. His bright-brown eyes lowered self-consciously when I looked at him.

            The man with the collar and chain was a prominent circuit-court judge, Lawrence Johnson, with a reputation for tough justice rugged even by Texas standards. He was down on his hands and knees, his short, compact, deep-black body gleaming. His red mouth hung open, panting, his long neon-pink tongue lolling out. He wore a brown leather muzzle on his hard, handsome face, and his mounded black bottom wagged back and forth as his big brown eyes rolled up at us.

            I didn’t recognise the third man at first. Until he lifted his head out of the padded hole in the table and cranked it our way. Then there was no mistaking his chiselled brow and dimpled chin, the perfect blond hair and blazing blue eyes: Troy Aikens, local news anchor. His tanned muscular body stretched out six feet four on the table, his huge buttocks humping prominently. He was belted around the shoulders, back, thighs and ankles, his tan cock jutting out down-under through another, smaller padded hole in the middle of the table. Tears of longing misted his telegenic eyes.

            ‘The runaway slave is Carl Diaz.’

            I nodded absently, recognising the name: the owner of Diaz Motors, a ten-branch chain of auto dealerships in the metro area.

            Then I swallowed the large lump in my throat, the temperature rising in my body and pussy despite the cellar chill, as I thoroughly surveyed the shocking scene, and as Madame Medieval gave each of her remaining slaves a stern look and said, ‘You’re going to tell Miss Chase everything you know about Carl – why he didn’t come home, where he went.’

            She turned to me, lifted an ethereally white hand and ran a long, pointed, blood-red fingernail down my cheek. ‘They claim they know nothing. But you’ll find out; you’ll find my slave and bring him back, won’t you?’

            It was more of a threat than a question, the woman’s violet eyes burning into mine, her metallic scarlet lips set in an unforgiving line. I bobbed my head up and down, a shiver running the length of my body, into my pussy, my achingly hard nipples almost piercing the white T-shirt I was wearing under my open denim jacket.

            The mistress of the manor ascended the stairs and slammed the door on us.

            The three men stared at me, their cocks twitching.

            I picked a whip up off the floor and walked over to the Reverend Montgomery. I lashed the nine black leather tails across his heaving chest, and he jerked against the X. ‘Where did Carl go?’ I asked, lashing him again, flaming red streaks across his creamy-white pecs, flaring his rigid pink nipples even more.

            He moaned and flung his head from side to side.

            I brought the whip lower, flicked my wrist, wrapped the man’s spearing cock with the warm leather tendrils. He jumped, but the metal clamps cuffing his wrists and ankles held him fast. I whipped his cock repeatedly, wrapping it, unravelling, the whipcords singing through the air, his cock blazing up red, swelling longer and thicker with hurt and lust.

            Then I suddenly tempered the harsh pain and pleasure with soft, hot, gripping rapture, dropping the cat o’ nine tails and grasping the panting man’s cock with my bare hand. He cried out, his body arching off the X. His whipped cock beat wildly in the enveloping warmth of my squeezing palm and lacing fingers, his balls bouncing. But he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me where Carl Diaz had run off to.

            I let go of the Reverend’s throbbing prick and moved over to Lawrence Johnson. He leapt up on his hands and knees, straining at his chain. Then he watched with glowering eyes and slavering mouth as I slipped off my jacket and let it fall, pulled my T-shirt up over my head and flung it aside. I shook out my blonde locks, my full, tanned, thick-nippled breasts bounding out into the open.

            I bent down, spilling my tits into the judge’s muzzled face, and picked a black leather strap up off the stone floor. The man lunged at me, shooting his tongue out of an opening in his muzzle and desperately licking at my dangling nipples. I smacked him on the nose with the strap, and he cowered and whimpered.

            ‘Why did Carl leave?’ I asked. If they didn’t know exactly where the man had gone, perhaps he’d talked to his fellow slaves about wanting to get away, which might provide me with a clue as to his whereabouts.

            Lawrence sprang back up, wagging his bottom, anxious to please.

            But he didn’t say anything, just jerked his head from side to side, his erection jumping between his legs. I smacked him on the nose again. His long tongue shot out of his muzzle again, licked the hurt off his nose this time. I gritted my teeth, unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down.

            He really got the scent now, all the men did – the tangy, musky aroma of my bared blonde pussy – and he knew what the reward would be for any information he provided. Because I kicked my jeans aside and stepped closer, thrust my brimming mound into his face, letting him take a long, wet slurp at my slit, as a treat.

            He yelped with joy. I shuddered with pleasure. The man had all the tools of a real dog.

            I backed away, out of range. He leapt at me. The chain and collar yanked him back, choking him in mid-air. His eyes bugged out, red-veined, his jaws drooling, his tongue squirming obscenely at me like an engorged, enraged worm. His cock bobbed rapidly up and down. But he didn’t tell me a thing.

            Troy Aikens had been watching it all from his neck-wrenched position strapped to the metal table. His cock protruded from the underside, the longest, thickest pulsating slab of meat of the three. I picked up a flat wooden paddle as I moved over to him, and brought it crashing down on his ass without warning as I stepped alongside.

            The table rattled with my blow and his reaction, his cry rending the stuffy air.

            ‘Who was Carl seeing, besides Madame Medieval? What other mistress was he slave to?’

            The hunky news anchor anchored to the bolted table craned his corded neck to look at me, his handsome face burning red, his blue eyes shining, spilling tears of joy. His plush lips parted and his lush mouth opened and closed. But he was just gasping for air, not words. I crushed his padded buttocks with the cricket-bat-shaped paddle a second time, making metal and man whine.

            I smashed his ass over and over and over, my breasts shuddering and shimmering, pussy surging and dripping. His butt-skin blazed crimson, blistering under my bat, while my own skin sheened with sweat. He jerked every time I struck him, his head thrusting up, cock out, fleshy back-mounds gyrating with emotion. If he knew anything, he wasn’t telling me, perhaps out of fear I might stop the beating.

            That’s the problem with slaves – their sheer perversity.